


Taste of Home

by gloss



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Anal Sex, Banter, Blow Jobs, Cooking, Domesticity, M/M, Post-TRoS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:27:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26715199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: There are few things Poe feels as strongly about as he does for Finn, but his grandfather's cuisine is one of them.That, and making Finn come, many times, gloriously.
Relationships: Poe Dameron/Finn
Comments: 13
Kudos: 89
Collections: Yes Fest 2020





	Taste of Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nixie_DeAngel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nixie_DeAngel/gifts).



"Got you something," Finn tells Poe when he makes contact at the close of his mission to the Klorites.

Even through the crappy holo, Poe's excitement is dramatic and unmistakable. "What is it? Can I have it now? I don't have to share it, do I?"

"You can't have it now," Finn says.

"Aw! Why not?"

"Because I have it with me and I'm a third of the way across the galaxy from you."

Poe's face crumples up. "Yeah, but —"

"I'll be back in twelve, maybe fourteen, hours."

"Where are you now?"

"Danlazo City, layover."

"I could come pick you up! Hmm?" He waggles his eyebrows and turns to a three-quarter profile — to what he claims is his "good side" — and winks. "How 'bout it, good-looking? Personal chauffeur service?"

"Twelve hours," Finn says firmly. "I'll see you then."

"But —"

"Love you, bye."

On the trip back, he receives four comms from Poe, all variations on the twin themes of _what is it?_ and _I could be there and back with you in the time this takes to send_. Finn uses the time to catch up on his sleep; the third-class berth in this slow cruiser isn't quite long enough for his frame, but it's much better than the chilly, mist-haunted forests he had been in for the bulk of the Klorite mission. 

Poe meets him on the tarmac, bundled up in a borrowed parka but unmistakable all the same. He grabs Finn into a hug that does not end, face buried against Finn's neck, rocking them side to side. They're never going to be able to take reunions for granted.

"Let's get inside," Finn shouts over the wind. "It's freezing out here!"

"Gimme my present first!"

Grabbing Poe's hand, Finn pushes past and drags him into the port building. When the hatch has wheezed closed and he can feel the warmth returning to his cheeks, Finn drops his satchel. "You're ridiculous."

"I'm enthusiastic," Poe says. "Missed you, plus I like presents, what's the harm in that?"

"Hypothermia?"

"Eh." He shrugs. "So can I have it now?"

Finn digs the bulky package, wrapped in refrigerating envelopes, out of his shoulder bag. "Here. I expect to share in the delights."

Poe cradles the package in both hands. He looks transfixed. "What is it?"

"Read the label, maybe?"

Poe's lips move as he translates the Danlazian dialect. "Holy _shit_ , man. You bought me the Three Brilliant Greens? Fresh? In here?"

"And you'll be making me garshti," Finn tells him, "or else."

*

"Get that away from me!" Poe warded off the server droid with a threatened kick and awkward hand-chop. "That's revolting, not garshti."

It was someone's retirement party; it's hard now to remember which one. There were so many in such a short span of time that they all run together in memory. Lots of drinking, speeches that grew increasingly ribald as the night proceeded, and catered food ranging from delicious (Statura's party) to barely adequate (Pava's, though the bartenders more than made up for the shitty food).

"No, I'm sorry, that's not right," Poe said, so loudly that at least half the party turned around. "That's not garshti."

The poor server droid offered the plate again. "Garshti?"

Shuddering, Poe took a step back. "No. No, thank you." He coughed into his hand and cleared his throat. "Everyone? Your attention? There's some dangerous food circulating. Do yourself a favor and avoid what they're trying to pass off as 'garshti'. You can thank me later."

Finn's face was hot, his fingers twitching at his side. Out of the corner of his mouth, he muttered, "Little much, don't you think?"

"What? I'm not going to stand by! I can't let that go!"

"It's just food."

"Hell, no, it's not!" Poe said. "It's _garshti_."

Sometimes Finn wondered if Poe missed having a cause. The war was over — officially, at any rate — and while there was still so much to do, so much left to fix, clean up, and repair, there was no longer the urgency that had characterized their lives. Life now was conducted according to principles, of course, but they were a lot quieter, farther in the background, than they had been.

Maybe, Finn ventured, Poe didn't know what to do without danger and driving principles.

Then again, maybe he'd just had too much to drink.

"Or maybe," Poe said, much later, when they'd returned to the flat they'd been sharing across the river, "I care about good food, especially the food of my fathers."

"Garshti."

He nodded vehemently. "Garshti, and sapling soup, and, maybe you'll laugh, but even wild-needle loblolly."

Finn sank down on the bed. He was drunk, and exhausted, and the prospect of removing his boots, and then his clothes, felt impossible. "I'm not laughing."

"Good, because this is important."

"I don't know what any of those things are." Finn rolled on his side and tugged ineffectually at the jacket of Poe's dress uniform. "Can you tell me about them later? Maybe tomorrow?"

"I'll do you one better," Poe said, kissing Finn's forehead, then his cheek, before finding his mouth. "I'll make you some."

They slept in their clothes, waking sometime later to strip and roll back into bed. In the morning, Poe made the loblolly, explaining at length that it wouldn't taste quite right without his grandfather's yellow syrup. Even its absence, however, Finn found the dish delicious.

"Can't wait for garshti next," he said, hoping Poe would be pleased by his good memory.

Poe just looked stricken.

"About that..." He leaned heavily on the edge of the cookery counter. "It's nothing without the Three Brilliant Greens."

"All right," Finn said.

"And those are out of season and, so far as I know, not sold for export outside the Danlazo system."

"Ah."

"You can buy mixes and reconstitute them," Poe added, "but then you just get shit like the stuff last night. Watery green shit-slurry."

"Yeah, that sounds awful." Finn cleaned the inside of his bowl with the last crust of his sweet bun. "Let's wait for the real thing."

Poe nodded slowly, his smile spreading; he looked, if anything, _proud_. "You get it. You always get it."

"Do I?" Finn asked, baffled as much as he was moved. "Cool."

*

That was six, maybe seven, months ago now. They've since moved two systems over, into the converted office block of a failed suburb on a wintery moon. Today, Finn stops briefly at their place to drop off his bags before he heads over to headquarters to file his mission report and catch up on comms and memos. He also needs to research some points of Klorite serjeanty.

"Just do all that from here," Poe suggests. He's in the cookery, cradling the package of Three Greens while BB-8 spins excitedly around him. "What's the use in being a general if you can't work where you want?"

Finn pulls on a fresh sweater. "If I stay here, I'm just going to sleep. Or make out with you. Best to get the work stuff out of the way."

"Fail to see the problem," Poe mutters.

"I'll be back soon," Finn tells him. "You get cooking. Sound good?"

"Not as good as making out," Poe says, "but all right."

When Finn returns, well past dusk, Poe is in a state. Possibly a tizzy. His face is flushed and hair standing nearly on end; sweat has darkened the neck of his jersey.

"Let me help?" Finn asks after he's washed up.

"No need, don't worry! I've got this."

"Talk me through it, then." Finn won't step in, though he wants to; Poe has myriad preferences about cooking, flavoring, and even chopping. At the same time, however, Poe seems frazzled enough to be a few minutes away from exploding.

Finn leans sideways against the short counter, trying not to smile despite everything. Poe looks half-mad, like a forest poet with lichens in his beard, and entirely handsome.

"So what you're going to want to do is —" Poe pauses to sneak a glance at the notes he'd made during his comm to his dad. Those notes, however, are now a goopy smear. "What you're going to do —"

"Mmm?" Finn smiles politely. "Sorry, what am I going to do?"

"I'm telling you!"

"Are you?" Finn crowds behind Poe, craning to see over his shoulder. He kisses the side of Poe's neck; he can't help it. Get them within arm's reach of each other and they'll be touching within thirty seconds. "Or are you frantically ordering Beebs to look up recipes?"

At Poe's feet, BB-8 chirps, _"There's so many!"_

Dropping his head, Poe sighs deeply. "You're ganging up on me again."

"Never." Finn remains plastered to Poe's back; he runs his hands up and down Poe's sides until his jersey moves up and Finn can touch the taut skin, rub his thumbs along the edges of Poe's ribs. He mouths at the exposed nape of Poe's neck, tugs at the ends of his hair, scrapes some teeth down one tendon, then the other.

"Now you are, though," Poe says shakily.

"Me?"

"Yeah. Ganging up." When Finn leans more heavily into him, Poe shuffles his feet apart to make room for Finn's leg. He tries to twist a little, seeking Finn's mouth with his own. When he can't, he groans a little. "See?"

"What'm I doing?" 

"You know what you're doing," Poe says. It's a little hard to catch his breath. He pushes back into Finn, lifts his ass, bends his knees. "You know _full well_ what you're doing."

"You're objecting?" Finn asks. His voice is soft, easy, filling Poe's ear, spilling warmth down through his body.

"Never," Poe swears. "Not on your life."

"Good to know." Hands on Poe's hips, he squeezes hard, then steps away. Poe starts to crumple against the counter but catches himself.

Poe looks over his shoulder, brows drawing together in confusion, even hurt. "Where're you going?"

Finn doesn't answer at first; he's busy pulling off his own jersey and overshirt. When they are carefully set aside, he says, "To bed. That okay?"

Poe shakes his head, both to clear it and to get the hair out of his eyes. Sweat prickles down his front and across his back. "But —"

"But?"

Frustrated, Poe grunts. He points, unhelpfully, to the general cookery area, then to Finn, then...to the ceiling? 

"Sorry," Finn says, "I don't think I caught that?"

"Garshti?" Poe manages to get out.

"Ah, right." Finn tilts his head. "Did you want to keep working on that?"

"Finn —"

"Poe."

"Finn!"

"I could go either way," Finn tells him. "Fuck now? Cook, then fuck? Break for eating?"

Poe's smile trembles at the corners of his mouth. "Eat, then fuck some more?"

"Well," Finn says slowly, looking Poe up and down. "I'll probably be able to go again, but you're going to need to tap out, old man."

Outraged, eyes wide enough to show all the white around the irises, Poe shoves Finn in the chest. "Take that back!"

"Prove me wrong?" Finn steps back into reach, arm going around Poe's waist.

Poe kisses him, hand on the back of Finn's head, pulling him in, holding him close. The kiss lengthens and deepens, then shifts, goes shallow, before renewing, until they're leaning against the counter, legs slotted together, mouths open and wet and questing.

In the other corner, BB-8 whips out one of his cutting apparatuses and sets to peeling, then chopping, the greens.

Finn pulls their flies open, tugging Poe's trousers further down his thick hips, and in response, Poe grinds more firmly against him. The counter rattles beside them. They're both erect, straining under their briefs, and their mouths are starting to numb and spark. There's a patch of skin just at the hinge of Poe's jaw that Finn has been worrying with teeth and tongue; it's wet with spit, tingling, sending jitters out across his face and down his neck. For his part, Poe has one hand shoved down the back of Finn's trousers, cupping Finn's ass, spreading his fingers to grab as much as he can.

 _"Excuse me!"_ BB-8 tweets, then repeats himself in a sharper register, at higher volume, when they don't react. _"Poe-friend! Finn-pal! Move aside!"_

Startled, more than a little confused, they break the kiss and peer blearily down at the droid. BB-8 has a chrome tray in one gripper, heaped with perfect matchsticks of the greens; in another gripper, he wields a steaming flask of spicy hornroot broth. When they stumble apart, BB-8 opens the cooker unit and adds the ingredients on the tray.

When the cooker is set and tray set aside, BB-8 rolls back out of the way. _"Resume face-sucking and booty-grabbing,"_ he says, _"dinner will be ready shortly."_

"How'd you...?" Poe asks.

_"I **listen** , Poe-friend. It's my job."_

Finn looks back and forth between them. "What'd he say?"

 _"When is he going to learn Binary?"_ BB-8 asks.

"He's busy learning the Force," Poe reminds him.

 _"Like that's so hard!"_ BB-8 chortles as he backs up. _"Looks more like he's learning your tonsils and also your penis!"_

"Hey now!" Poe shouts, but BB-8 is already zipping out into the passage.

That doesn't stop him from finishing his commentary, however. _"Is Finn-pal amnesiac? You'd think he'd know them perfectly by now!"_

Poe leans against the wall, washed over by weariness for a moment. His pulse pounds in his temples as well as down the center of his cock. Exhaling softly, Finn leans next to next him and takes Poe's hand.

"Looks like we've got some free time," Finn says. "Thanks to Beebs."

Poe snorts and rests his head on Finn's shoulder. "He's the best."

"Yeah," Finn says.

"But also the most obnoxious."

"Eh," Finn puts in. "Jury's out on that, really."

Poe raises their linked hands to his mouth and kisses the back of Finn's. Then the knuckle on Finn's thumb, then the side of his wrist. He keeps his eyes on Finn's face, watching arousal wash over his expression — widen his eyes, tighten his mouth, shine and sparkle in sweat and gaze.

When Finn speaks again, his voice is a lot rougher, taking a couple tries to catch, like a tailhook missing the cables. "Poe, _fuck_ —"

"Sweetheart," Poe says, then takes Finn's thumb between his lips. He slides it over his tongue, wraps it up with his tongue, suckles very hard.

Finn's eyes blaze and his hips buck. "Poe. _Shit_."

"Couldn't stop thinking about this," Poe says, pausing to slide his mouth down the side of Finn's finger. "Well. What this suggests."

"What's it suggest?" Finn asks.

"For a smart guy, you sure ask a lot of questions —"

"Want to hear you say it," Finn says. He releases his grip on the front of Poe's jersey.

"Couldn't stop thinking about your cock," Poe says, amiably, like he's reporting on the weather outside. "Your ass. Your hole. Your whole damn —"

Finn's legs shake; grasping Poe's shoulder, he urges him downward.

On his knees, Poe tugs at the waist of Finn's trousers, mutters, "Get 'em down, come _on_ —" 

They both fumble, hands knocking together, but manage at last to get the trousers around Finn's knees. "Brilliant strategy," Finn says. He meant to say it lightly, but it comes out in a croak. "Look at us, military geniuses."

Poe grins up at him, presses his palms against Finn's thighs, and goes still. He just looks upward, not blinking, his grin bright and wide. Finn's dick throbs, untouched, barely even noticed.

"Everything all right?" Finn asks.

"Just enjoying the view." Poe nods. "It's a good angle."

"Same," Finn tells him. It's not that Poe isn't handsome everywhere, anywhere, but this is one of Finn's personal favorites, Poe's wide, agile mouth and intense eyes and mobile brows. "You look better, though, with —"

"Something in my mouth?" Poe asks as his hands slide up to grasp the creases where torso meets legs. 

"In your throat —" Finn tries to spread his legs, as much as the trousers will let him, and rocks forward, making Poe chase the head of his cock with his lips and tongue. "I was going to say. In your —"

"Got it," Poe replies and pushes his face forward, pushes his whole body into it, so he's one long line from mouth to neck to spine, angled onto Finn's dick. His mouth runs with spit, his tongue beats and flutters, and he's swallowing already, working his throat, bouncing a little as he takes more and more of the shaft inside.

Finn gives up on words, settling for a hand clutching the side of Poe's head, fingers tangled up in his hair, and hips rocking. The heat and pleasure urge him to shove forward, thrust deep and then deeper, but he fights for restraint and concentrates on the minute progress and lavish attention of Poe's mouth.

Poe's eyelids are drifting closed; he gets this reverent face so easily, like he can slip without a thought into worshipful adoration. One hand plays with Finn's balls, tapping them, rolling them, stroking them softly until that warmth joins and brightens the main pleasure. His other hand works sideways and backwards, between Finn's legs, to his crack, to tease at his hole. Slick with spit, the fingertips circle and caress, urge Finn to rub against them.

There's a taut, living moment that drops out of time and becomes its own hour, its own cycle, as pleasure and anticipation double back and twine together. They superheat Finn from the inside out, pull him up onto his toes, his knees bent and spread in some sort of obscene pose, as he fucks Poe's throat. Any pretense at rhythm soon vanished; Poe's grunts and high-pitched nasal wheezes join the slap of Finn's balls and his own bitten-off shouts. His head thumps back against the wall when everything speeds up and snarls, and he comes with the side of his hand stuffed in his mouth. He rides the slick heat of Poe's moaning throat, shooting until he's wrung out.

Poe rests his cheek on one thigh and tries to catch his breath. His fingers are still locked between Finn's asscheeks, one knuckle deep inside him. He's sweating, and achingly hard, and feels like he just personally ran a hyperlane on two feet.

Finn pats Poe's cheek, then cups it, tipping back his face. He looks both radiant and exhausted, with a dopey smile and bright eyes.

"— and that," Poe says, then pauses to cough and swallow the sticky, come-flavored spit in his mouth. "That is what we call a _flavor sensation_."

Laughing despite himself, Finn helps Poe to his feet, only to lean heavily against him. "Gross."

"Clearly you've never tasted you," Poe says loftily.

Finn shucks off his trousers the rest of the way and steps out of them. "I have, which is how I know it's gross."

Poe wraps an arm around Finn's waist and they stumble, slowly, toward the sleeping area. "Poor you, I had no idea Force-sensitivity meant no taste buds."

Finn kisses him. They knock into the sleeping platform and tumble onto their sides.

"Ugh, one sec —" Poe struggles to sit up, then hauls himself to his feet. "Need to wash up, check the food."

Finn makes a half-irritated murmur. "Since when are you sensible?" he calls, then flops onto his face.

"I've always been sensible!" Poe yells back. Their place is barely big enough to qualify as an "apartment"; it's closer to a triple-bunk. They should not need to raise their voices very far to be heard. Years of artillery fire and deep-space engagements, however, have wreaked havoc on their hearing.

He rinses out his mouth with bacta-swill and washes his hands and face. Still gargling the swill, he peeks into the cooker; the cloud of steam that breaks over his face smells so much like his childhood that tears come to his eyes. He doesn't have any actual memories of life with his grandfather, but there are physical memories that run far deeper than anything else. The smell of braising garshti and the silken texture of good loblolly are the strongest feelings he has this side of his mother and Finn.

Poe spits out the wash and swallows some hydro-liquid as he lingers in the cookery. BB-8 is charging in his niche in the passage. Slowly, taking care, Poe lifts the garshti from the cooker and places it next to the plumbing. He refills the hydro-liquid for Finn and returns to the sleeping area.

Finn is lying on his stomach, head pillowed on one folded arm, utterly naked from the rosy sole of his foot over the length of his legs and buxom swell of his ass and up, up, across the sweep of his shoulders. Poe pauses where he is, grip going numb on the beverage; he stares, and savors, and gets struck all over again by feelings that are too bright, far too quick and deep, to be named. _Tenderness_ only starts to suggest what he's feeling; _love_ , too, is clumsy and inexact. Not _untrue_ , but not nearly evocative and specific enough.

It stands to reason that someone as extraordinary as Finn would inspire feelings too rare and overwhelming to bear ordinary names.

"Forget where you were going?" Finn asks thickly. He wiggles his ass a little. 

"Lemme ogle, man, it's my right."

Finn turns a little to look at Poe. His smile is sleepy and broad. "Ogling? That's what we're calling it?"

"Best term I can think of," Poe replies and sits back down, handing Finn the drink. "Granted, almost 90% of my blood and brain are in my dick right now."

"So your usual state."

Poe doesn't dignify that with a response; it's not like Finn's all that wrong. Instead, he retrieves the empty cup, tosses it aside, and tackle-rolls Finn until he's on top and staring down at Finn's wide eyes and challenging smile.

"I could demonstrate?" Poe asks.

"Demonstrate what?"

"Shit, you _are_ tired," Poe says. Finn rarely loses his train of thought. He sits back on his haunches to open his fly and wriggle his trousers down. Finn's hand wanders unerringly into Poe's groin and starts stroking him. "Damn."

"Mmm?" He's teasing Poe, smiling secretly, his eyes heavy-lidded; he's as blissed out as Poe's ever seen him. If he could, Poe would do anything to keep Finn feeling just like this, drowsy and languorous and adored, for the rest of their days. "What're you thinking?"

"Stuff," Poe tells him. "You. Wondering how much more fucked out you can get."

Finn's grasp on Poe's cock firms and speeds up. "Dunno. Some? A little?"

Desire always hovers, hopeful, just within reach, for Poe, but with Finn around, with Finn's warm body spread out here and his face gazing up at Poe, the scent of him all around, desire is another terrible, inaccurate word. Poe _wants_ , to taste and feel, to be sure, but also to inhabit and exalt and join. He thrusts roughly into Finn's hand and struggles to get the lube where it needs to be.

Everything's too slow, because he wants too much and he's too limited, but somehow time rushes past anyway. Soon he's groaning when Finn breaks for breath, and vice versa, as he pushes inside and Finn wraps a leg around the back of Poe's knee and they pant together, looking shocked, _feeling_ shocked and wrung blind already. The rough weave of his trousers rasps against Finn's smooth skin and his own knees as they dig into the mattress. He wants to make this last, wants to fuck Finn slow and deep, watch his eyes roll back and limbs fling wide. And he does, he sees all of that, feels it from the inside as he buries himself, then pulls nearly free, heat and light building and brightening inexorably.

Finn's back is arched a little, his head thrown back, mouth open and wet. He kisses back when Poe reaches for him, eagerly but inexpertly, murmuring and groaning. He's on his elbows, ribs wide, stomach hollowing, fucking back on each of Poe's thrust. Their kiss slides apart, then together again, and finally apart as Finn falls backward and Poe sits up. His cock rides a new angle; he's a part of Finn now, glued and sheathed, dragging up and down across the spot that makes Finn's throat gurgle and his hands clutch blindly at the mattress, at Poe, at himself.

"I'm going to —" Finn gets out, then breaks off to arch his back like an acrobat. His eyes open and, dazedly, seek out Poe as he grabs at his half-hard cock and pumps it, twice as fast as Poe is thrusting.

Inside, he tightens on Poe, draws him deeper yet, crushes him there, held fast.

Poe can't say much more than grunts and monosyllables — "yeah" and "do it" and "fuck, _you_ " — but they understand each other just fine.

The rapid fluttering pleasure that Finn's jacking out of himself wraps tighter around Poe's cock, making thrusting fairly hypothetical, but his hips keep working as Finn comes, spurting a few times over his hand while bouncing on Poe. Poe fucks him through it, feels the radiated tension, drives on and deeper and finally, he's lying all the way on top of Finn, just one knee bent to maintain the semblance of an angle, and his hips judder and grind out his orgasm, make it explode slowly, whiting out his vision, over-riding the cramp in his leg and numbness in his grasping hand.

He comes and flies apart, a mess and a half, scattered across Finn like jetsam. Finn rolls them on their sides, hissing at the friction and scrape, and they mime kisses with numb lips and pet each other with heavy, clumsy hands.

They whisper and doze a little, until the room fills with silvery, darting lights: it's snowing, again. Finn drags out the wool quilt and pulls it up to their chests.

 _"Dinner, friends,"_ BB-8 reminds them.

"Garshti's best the next day," Poe into the heat of Finn's neck.

"You're the expert," Finn replies.

BB-8 hesitates for half a moment before lifting himself onto the end of the sleeping platform and powering down.


End file.
